


as though the world is ending

by ArtjuiceRP



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9372854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtjuiceRP/pseuds/ArtjuiceRP
Summary: The last thing Rory Gilmore expected to happen on her way home from work was to be saved by a man in a mask and a cape. All she wanted was a front page story. She had no idea what she was getting involved in.





	1. Rory

Rory Gilmore was already regretting agreeing to drinks after work. The walk from the tube station to her dingy apartment was bad enough when it _wasn't_ dark, but after the sun had set and the few working streetlights had come on, Rory preferred to already be back home with her door secured by several locks.

She wouldn't usually have accepted such an invitation but after her most recent bi-weekly call with her mom, she'd felt obligated to. Lorelai had been too concerned that she wasn't getting out enough, that she wasn't living the big city life the way she was supposed to, and 'do you even know _anything_ about your colleagues other than their names and what beat they work on?'.

Finding out that Diana who worked on the aliens beat - three years and Rory still couldn't believe she worked somewhere with an _aliens_ beat - had a tendency to drink several glasses of Jagermeister and then go home with the first person who showed interest wasn't exactly worth delaying her journey home.

It was times like this that she regretted turning down her grandparents' offer to buy her a place in a better neighbourhood. She hadn't denied their help before - they'd paid for Chilton, for Harvard, and even her apartment in Providence - but she'd agreed with her mom when she'd told her that she needed to stop relying on her grandparents one day, the same way she had.

But no, she'd decided it was time to become independent, stashed her trust fund money away 'for emergencies only' and rented an apartment she could comfortably afford with the salary the New York News Bulletin gave her.

And now, someone was following her home.

At least, she thought they were.

She glanced quickly over her shoulder at the man walking behind her. She couldn't see his face, his hood hiding it from view, but someone wearing the same red logo-emblazoned hoodie had been on the same train as her and she'd been certain he'd been watching her. She'd been uncomfortably aware of his gaze, her hands trying to keep her skirt as long as she could, and she'd hurried off the train, without looking back, the moment the doors opened onto her station.

Maybe she was just being paranoid. For all she knew, him getting off the train and walking the same streets as her was just a coincidence and, despite what the media liked to say, not everyone who wore a hoodie was a criminal.

Rory crossed the road. He followed.

Her heels clicked more frequently against the sidewalk when she sped up and held her handbag closer to her body. She only had a few more streets to go, and if she could keep enough distance between them, she'd be able to get into her apartment building and lock the door before he could follow her any further.

She should call someone.

The police? No, she knew how bad their response time was in this area. Her mom would just freak out. She could maybe ask Jess to rush over and accompany her the last couple of blocks, but there was no guarantee he'd answer her call or if he even had his phone on him - he always preferred to talk in person.

Rory turned the corner and ran, as fast as her shoes would allow. The sidewalk was a bit uneven, her heel catching on the edge of a raised paving slab, and she stumbled forward, knees crashing into the pavement. The man behind her called out, but she didn't respond. She stood straight back up, her knees throbbing, and kept moving towards her building.

One hand was rummaging through her bag for her keys. She wanted them in her hand, didn't want to waste a moment standing by the door, and she could hear Paris' voice in her head over and over again reminding her that keys could be weapons too if needed.

Except she couldn't find them anywhere.

Her bag was too big - _why_ had she chosen soft tan leather over a bag with pockets and a designated, easy-to-access space for her keys -, too full of receipts and chocolate bar wrappers that she always intended to throw away but never had. Her laptop charger was a knotted mess at the bottom, joined by loose change and an empty thermos, as well as crumpled notes she'd made for both past and future articles.

If her keys _were_ in her bag, she had no idea where they were.

Finally outside her apartment, she stood below the flickering porch light and peered down into her bag, frequently glancing up to check how far away the man was. He was getting closer, swaying slightly as he walked, and when he was only a few metres away, he spoke again, his words too slurred for her to understand.

"Sorry," she said quickly, her voice shaking. "My friend's expecting me."

He didn't listen. He just kept talking, lumbering nearer and nearer with each unintelligible word. Rory didn't know what to do - she needed her keys, but she didn't want to look away from him, not when he was getting so close.

She could smell the alcohol on him.

He staggered even closer. She held her bag to her chest, almost like a shield, her grip so tight that her knuckles turned white. "Don't come any closer," she warned, trying to figure out how much damage she could do by hitting him with her bag. Or maybe she could kick him - her heels were difficult to run in, but they were sharp.

If she got out of this, she'd take Paris' suggestion to take up Krav Maga much more seriously.

"I just want to keep you company," he slurred - or she _thought_ he slurred, she still wasn't entirely sure what he was saying. "A pretty girl like you doesn't want to be alone."

"Yes, I do," she shouted, stepping back so that if she _did_ need to kick out at him, she could use the wall as support. "Alone is good. I like being alone. Can you just… Stay back!"

Her words didn't even seem to register with him., but before he could shuffle any closer, she heard a zip and then someone landed in front of her, between her and the drunk man.

"The lady said 'stay back'," the figure declared.

Rory had no idea what was going on. He had abseiled down from the roof, the thick metal wire he'd descended on ending only inches above the ground, and not only was he acting as her human shield, he was wearing a _cape_.

The sight of him seemed enough to scare the other man away. He muttered something about having drunk too much and started back towards the tube station. As he walked away, Rory searched her bag for her keys, a sigh of relief escaping her when she found them buried beneath her laptop charger, hidden in a fold of the lining.

Keys in hand, Rory went to finally enter her building. She wanted to get off the street and away from whatever was going on, but the moment the Batman-wannabe turned around, Rory forgot everything she was doing and just stared.

The cape was one thing, but she hadn't expected the full look. He stood in front of her, his hands on his hips, his chest pushed out and his legs shoulder-width apart, wearing some sort of body armour that had hard plates integrated into a skin-tight black suit. If that plus the cape wasn't strange enough, he was wearing a mask.

It didn't cover much of his face, but it was enough. Rory doubted she'd be able to pick him out of a line-up if he wasn't wearing the costume. All she could tell was that he was tall, dark-haired and probably handsome, and clearly had no trouble wearing something that, if not for the armour-plating, he may as well not be wearing at all.

"You've read too many comic books," she said finally.

Her words seemed to surprise the Batman-wannabe. His chest deflated, his arms at his sides, and without the superhero pose, he looked even more ridiculous. "That's not how women usually thank me."

He had an Australian accent, and for some reason, that surprised Rory almost as much as his appearance had. She had expected a growl, like the one Christian Bale put on when he was in the batsuit, trying to sound badass while disguising his voice at the same time.

"How do they usually thank you?" He didn't answer, but Rory had a feeling that if he wasn't wearing his mask, he'd be wiggling his eyebrows. His smirk was definitely suggesting something. "Right, okay, well, a thank you is all you're getting from me."

He didn't go anywhere. She'd hoped he would walk away - or maybe even fly away - when he got his sincere thank you, but he was still waiting for something.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked. "Shouldn't you be off looking for other drunks to chase away?"

"I'm waiting to see if the fair lady would be willing to thank me with a kiss?"

Her jaw dropped, and she was about to start rambling on about how him choosing to help her didn't mean she owed him anything, especially a kiss, when his tone registered and she realised he was joking. Or, at least, half-joking. "Well, Captain Australia, you'll be waiting a long time."

"Well, it was worth a try." He shrugged. "Maybe next time."

"Don't hold your breath," she said. "Wait, you don't mean me, do you? Do you try this with all the girls you save?"

He laughed. "Love, I'm not that picky. I'll take a kiss from anyone who wants to give me one. Female or otherwise."

Rory raised an eyebrow. "And it works?"

"More than you'd think."

"Is that why you do this? To try and get someone to share a spiderman kiss with you?" Rory couldn't stop herself from asking. It was late, she was exhausted, and her knees were throbbing, but she was too curious to walk away without getting a few answers.

"It's not why, but it does make it more fun."

"So why?"

It took him a while to say anything, and Rory had the unsettling feeling that he was sizing her up. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was looking her up and down, his eyes slightly narrowed. She was going to just sigh and go inside, give up on getting anything from the man in the costume, when he smirked.

"In Omnia Paratus."

"What?" she asked. "Is that Latin? What does that mean?"

He repeated the phrase but hearing it a second time didn't make anything clearer. It still wasn't much of an explanation. "Well, as much fun as this is, and it _is_ fun, I have other buildings to jump off."

"Oh, okay," she said, flustered by his sudden dismissal. "Well, thanks again. For appearing."

He nodded in acknowledgement, attaching the hanging wire to something on his belt. He tugged at the wire a few times, winked at her, and then he pressed something and he shot up into the air with a whoop, zipping quickly back up the wire.

For a guy who wasn't in a comic book or a Marvel movie, he was surprisingly well-equipped for vigilantism.

Rory watched him until he reached the top of the building and disappeared onto the roof. She watched the rooftops for a while, hoping to catch sight of him again, but she didn't spot any sign of movement.

Her whole evening had been ridiculous, she thought, as she climbed the narrow staircase to her apartment. The drunken man had been terrifying, but easily scared away, and after everything that had happened in the several minutes since she was dwelling less on the incident than she would have expected.

Wasn't it enough for her life to be a real-life comic book once? She'd managed to stop herself from being Connecticut's answer to Lois Lane, refusing to even consider printing the stories she'd witnessed. She'd wanted her name to be associated with more than just unbelievable tabloid articles about superheroes, to be a 'serious' reporter.

That had been before, when she thought Harvard and her experience at the ProJo would lead to something better.

After three years at The New York News Bulletin, she was pretty sure that she'd already lost any credibility she'd had.

A vigilante story could put her name back out there, if she did it properly. If she got pictures and found other witnesses and made it into something more than speculation.

It wasn't someone she knew, not this time. Instead, it was a mystery, it was something she could investigate and publish. If she did it right, it was something that could get her writing some attention, draw interest to her other, more respectable articles.

She had nothing to lose from looking into the man who'd saved her.

_In Omnia Paratus_. She'd start there.

~~~*~~~

Rory hadn't fallen asleep until sunrise and had slept right through her alarm. When she had finally woken up, she'd remained huddled in her blankets for several more minutes and wished she didn't have to go to work and write more articles that were unlikely to be read by anyone but her grandfather.

At least her office had flexible hours. She spent more than enough time at the office to justify arriving a few hours later than usual every once in awhile, which came in useful on the increasingly regular days where she didn't want to go into work at all.

It was one of those days. She was still exhausted, her knees were purple and sore - she was convinced they were slightly swollen - and the last thing she wanted to do was go to work. Not that that was a new feeling. If she didn't dread what her mom would say about the idea of dropping her hours down to part-time and subsidising the rest of her paycheck with her trust fund, she'd do just that.

But, for the first time in a long time, she had a story she actually _wanted_ to write, and that was enough motivation to get her out of bed and ready for work.

The late start meant that Rory was one of the last to arrive at the office, so the office gossip was already in full-swing by the time she entered the room, large coffee in hand. Usually, Rory didn't pay attention to the chatter. Most days, she would arrive to an almost empty office, go straight to her desk and start working on her current assignments, her earphones in and playing instrumental music just loud enough to block out the sound of her colleagues chatting.

"Hey, Rory." It was hard to ignore the gossip when they spoke directly to her. Rory forced a smile onto her face and turned to see who spoke. It was Diana, looking surprisingly put together for someone who'd downed as many Jagermeisters as she had the night before. "This is a bit later than usual for you, isn't it? Did your night keep going after you left us at the bar?"

"No." Rory doubted any of her colleagues would have bothered to talk to her if she hadn't joined them the night before, and after the night she'd had, she was hoping Diana would be satisfied with small talk. "Just had a bad night's sleep. White wine makes me restless."

"Sorry to hear it," Diana said.

They didn't talk any further. Diana joined several of the others in conversation and Rory retreated to her desk, slipping her feet out of her high heels and stretching her legs out straight, knees protesting.

She stuck a post-it to the edge of her computer screen, the words _In Omnia Paratus_ written on it. The bright pink paper stood out amongst the several picture frames she had dotted around her desk. One held a photo of her entire family at her Harvard graduation; Richard and Emily, Lorelai and Luke, and Christopher. Another, a framed collage of candids Lane had taken at Lorelai and Luke's wedding - of Rory and Jess sharing a dance, her face slightly pink because Jess was dancing too fast for her to keep up with, of Luke shaking his head as Lorelai served herself an enormous slice of wedding cake.

There weren't any pictures from New York.

"Cheery this morning, isn't she?" The man at the desk beside her, Victor, was watching Diana over the the top of his computer monitor. Rory shrugged. "Apparently, she's got a story idea that she's pretty certain will make the front page."

"Really?" Rory asked. "What is it? Has E.T come back for a quick visit?"

"Not E.T," he said, and then he nodded at his screen. Rory raised her eyebrows, but still rolled her chair nearer to him to see what he was looking at.

It was a picture, although Rory couldn't figure out what it was. The only light in the photo seemed to be from a street light, and the whole thing was blurred and dark. Maybe Victor was joking around, trying to get her to claim that she could see something story-worthy in the terrible picture, because as far as she could see, there was nothing special about the image at all.

"What?"

He tapped his finger against a dark silhouette in the top corner of the photo. "That." He zoomed in slightly, although it didn't make anything clearer. "This got posted on Facebook last night and it's been shared thousands of times since. Apparently, thousands of people think this is the first picture of New York's answer to Batman."

" _This_?" Rory narrowed her eyes, peering at the picture. She supposed people could see the shape as that of a man standing on the rooftop, could just about make out what could be a head and shoulders, but it was hardly a story. "And this is enough to get Diana above the fold?"

"You're giving this place too much credit," Victor said with a laugh. "If she enlarges the picture and adds a few quotes from people claiming to have run into this guy, you know Jonah will be all over it."

"She has quotes?"

"Yeah. According to several different people, this guy is either dark-haired or blond, tends to wear either a cape or a leather jacket and is sometimes Australian, but not all the time."

Rory gaped at him, unsure whether or not he was serious. The 'Australian' description was enough to convince her that Diana had happened upon a few credible sources, but the rest didn't exactly make the story sound real. "Wow, that really narrows things down."

"She's running with the idea that New York doesn't just have its own Batman, but its own Justice League watching the streets."

"Does she think superheroes are like _buses_?" Rory said incredulously. "Wait ages for one and then several come along at once?"

"I'm with you on this." Victor held his hands up as though preemptively surrendering to Rory's argument. "But we both know that this is something our esteemed editor is going to put front and centre, and if adding a few more potential vigilantes makes the story juicier, Diana will do just that. Do you know how long it's been since she last got on the front page?"

Rory shook her head. She usually didn't pay attention to Diana's articles. She'd long resigned herself to the fact she worked at a paper that would prefer to print science-fiction over fact, but that didn't mean she had to read it.

She didn't want Diana to do the story. Rory didn't want the vigilante story to be one or two attention-grabbing headlines on articles based purely on speculation, not when she knew the rumours were true. Not when she wanted to write it more than she'd wanted to write anything in years.

Jonah White seemed surprised when Rory was the first to speak up at the staff meeting that morning. She didn't blame him - it was unusual for her to do anything more than force a smile and nod - but she couldn't wait for Diana to get her chance to propose the article.

"I thought you only wrote about _real_ news?" Diana asked bitterly, as soon as Rory had pitched the idea. "Why this?"

"Because I can make it more than just rumours about a bad photo," she said, directing her reply back to the editor instead of Diana. "Don't you think the other tabloids are going to be running exactly the same story? I want to do more than that. I want to know the truth, and if that truth _is_ that New York has a few new crime-fighters roaming the streets at night, then I want to find out who they are and why they're doing it."

She watched Jonah anxiously as she waited for his response. It looked like he was mulling her proposal over, weighing up the pros and cons of it.

"You have until we print on Sunday," he said slowly, his heavy eyebrows furrowed. "If you don't have a story for that paper, then you don't have a story at all. It all goes to Diana."

"You want me to know who they are by _Saturday_? That's only four days."

"I don't need their names. I need more than - what did you call it? - a bad photo."

"I can do that."

"And just because you're writing this, it doesn't mean I don't want your regular articles too. You're the only one of us Bloomberg might actually give a statement too, should we need one."

Rory nodded, unable to stop the grin from spreading across her face. Diana looked utterly furious - Rory was never going to get invited out for drinks again - but Rory didn't care. The story was hers.

"Oh, and Gilmore?" Jonah called out as the meeting dispersed. "I want a better photo. You get something high def, you might get onto the front page."

She ignored the buzzing of her colleagues as they returned to their desks. Four days wasn't long, especially when all she had was three words and a blurry photograph, but she was sure she could manage.

If things got dire, she supposed she could always wander around her neighbourhood late at night and yell really loudly.

Google was her first port of call. One search and she had the translation of the three words written just beneath it.

_Ready for anything_.

She wasn't sure what to make of that. Was Captain Australia just giving her a really pretentious answer to her question, using Latin to make it sound more meaningful than it really was? She hoped not.

There _had_ to be more to it. She needed there to be. It wasn't a satisfactory answer, it didn't even make sense as an answer if there wasn't some further hidden meaning in the words.

Pages and pages later, she'd just read multiple websites giving her the exact same translation and nothing else. She tried to google the phrase again, this time with the word 'motto' attached to the end of the search. That narrowed things down.

It was a link on the second page of results that caught her attention. It was a scanned image of an old article from the Yale Daily News, captioned with the sentence "In Omnia Paratus: An extreme stunt or an event held by the rumoured 'Life and Death Brigade'". The photograph accompanying the article was of several men, each one in a tuxedo, holding an umbrella and jumping off a bridge.

It wasn't much, but after spending another several minutes delving deeper and deeper into Google's responses, it was the only thing that had any promise. She couldn't believe she was really considering a college secret society as an actual starting point for her investigation, not when she didn't even have confirmation the society existed, but the more she read about it, the more plausible it seemed.

In a secret society of wealthy Yale students, surely some had moved to New York following their graduation? And if the club involved as many stunts as the article's speculated, she doubted all of its members would stop the extreme sports just because they weren't at university anymore. Maybe jumping off bridges turned into jumping off buildings, which somehow led to donning a cape and patrolling the streets.

It sounded ridiculous but it wasn't like she had anything else to go on - she highly doubted Diana would give her information about the sources she'd used.

Rory sighed, her head in her hands. Maybe she'd been too eager to write the story. Maybe quotes and a blurry picture would have been better than announcing she was going to prove the rumours true and try to expose the man behind the mask.

She needed another coffee.

Once she had a fresh shot of espresso in her hand, she called her grandfather.

"Rory?" he asked. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, Grandpa," she said. "I have five minutes free and I just thought I'd give you a call."

"You know you can always talk to me, Rory. I've actually wanted to speak to you for a few days now but I wasn't sure when I'd be able to contact you. You always tell us how busy you are whenever you make it to dinner."

"You wanted to talk to _me_?"

"Yes. About your article on Putin's re-election."

"You read that?"

"I read all your articles, Rory." She smiled, partly because of the warmth his words brought to her and partly because she couldn't help but be amused by the idea of her grandfather reading a paper where the main headline was about the Kardashians. "Each one confirms my theory that you're better than that paper you insist on working at."

"Grandpa," she said, rolling her eyes. "We've had this conversation before."

"And we will _keep_ having this conversation until you're working at a paper that deserves you."

"Well, hopefully, this might help that happen," she admitted. "This might sound like a weird question, but I actually called you to ask if you'd ever heard about The Life and Death Brigade. I think it's a secret society at Yale and-"

"The name's familiar."

"Is it real?"

"I believe it is," Richard said slowly. "I was never a part of it myself, but I knew of others who were. What does a Yale society have to do with you working at a different paper?"

"It's just a hunch so maybe nothing," she told him. "Anyway, I should get back to work. Thanks, Grandpa."

"Of course, Rory."

"I'll see you in a couple of weeks?"

"I'm looking forward to it."

She felt much more confident when she returned to her desk. The society was real, and although there was still a good chance it was all just a coincidence, at least she wasn't chasing something that didn't exist.

There didn't seem to be much more information for her to find, but once she found an old picture with the name Elias Huntzberger in the caption, she decided to leave Google behind. She knew that name - every respectable journalist did.

The man himself had died a couple of years earlier, but if he was in the society, there was a good chance his son and grandson had been too.

She'd met Mitchum Huntzberger before, at her grandfather's previous Christmas party, and after he'd laughed at the paper she worked at, he'd given her his business card and offered to put in a good word for her somewhere more reputable. But even if she did manage to get in contact with him, she doubted he'd be able to do anything more than confirm the group's existence. She hadn't been able to see all of the masked man's face when they spoke, but she doubted he was much older than thirty. He and Mitchum wouldn't have been in the society at the same time.

Logan Huntzberger would be her best option. He was the right age, and as far as she knew, he ran one of the Huntzberger-owned newspapers in New York.

She just needed to find a way to talk to him.


	2. Logan

All Logan Huntzberger wanted to do was get back to his office, lock the door and go to sleep. It had reached the time of the week where not even his regular midday workouts were enough to combat the tiredness constantly gnawing at him.

It didn't help that he'd worked out more intensively than he probably should have, given that his side was still mottled purple and aching after a miscalculated leap from a building a couple of nights before. He'd hoped the adrenaline that usually followed a good workout was enough to get him through the rest of the day, but that and a shower didn't seem to have helped.

The last thing he wanted to find was someone at his assistant's desk demanding a meeting with him, but that was exactly what the elevator doors opened onto. For a moment, he considered staying in the elevator and taking a trip back downstairs. He could go out, pick up a coffee, answer some emails, and wait out the angry woman, but he was just so _tired_.

He grimaced, ran a hand through his damp hair, and stepped out of the elevator. The woman at the desk seemed too fixated on Tess to notice anything, and he sent Tess a grateful nod over the woman's shoulder as he started towards his office.

"I've already told you, Miss Gilmore," Tess said, only a hint of exasperation in her voice. "We're not hiring."

"Ugh, you're not listening." Logan turned in the doorway of his office just in time to see the woman stomp her foot. Tess wouldn't have been able to see Miss Gilmore's outburst, not from where she sat, but he could, and suddenly his office couch seemed less appealing. Not that he was going to intervene. "That's not why I'm here."

Why _was_ she here? He definitely didn't have any meetings scheduled and, after a cursory glance over her body, he was almost positive she wasn't someone he'd had sex with during one of his increasingly rare nights out.

He couldn't think of any reason she'd be so insistent on seeing him.

"I don't care if you're not hiring," she continued. "I have a job, and maybe writing for the New York News Bulletin isn't as respectable as being a secretary here at the Ledger, but that doesn't mean you should assume I'm going out and begging for another job. I'm here because I have a few questions for your boss."

"Mr Huntzberger doesn't respond to ambush journalism," Tess said. "If you want an interview, you'll need to organise one."

"I tried, but no one replied to my email and I don't have time to wait for an appointment," she said. "I'm going to stay here until Huntzberger gets back from his ridiculously long lunch-break and if he really doesn't want to respond, then he can tell me that to my face. I'm not walking away until he rejects me himself. And if he _does_ , then I'll just-"

"You'll what?" She jumped at the sound of his voice, and he had to smirk when she spun around and glared at him. "Make something up? I hear that's the modus operandi over at the New York News Bulletin."

She glared at him. His smirk just widened, his attention drawn to her blue, blue eyes and her slightly flushed cheeks. She was beautiful. She was furious.

"I'll say 'no comment'." Her eyes narrowed, and he felt like she was sizing him up and thinking something not very complimentary. "It's not a lie, but it _is_ something people tend to read into."

Logan laughed and tilted his head in the direction of his office. Her eyes widened, as though she hadn't expected him to give in that easily, but seeing as she'd made him smile more than he had in a while, the least he could do was give her a few words.

He stepped aside to let her enter the office first, and then he closed the door behind him. He didn't get further than one step into the room - she had stopped just through the door and turned to wait for him, her hand outstretched.

"Rory Gilmore."

He shook her hand, her palm soft against his. "Logan Huntzberger."

The moment their handshake ended, she settled in the chair opposite his desk and took her phone out of her pocket. "You don't mind if I record this, do you? I don't want to misquote anything."

"Don't get too comfortable," he warned her, sitting on his own, much larger, leather chair. "You're not going to be here long."

"You're not going to answer my questions?"

"I'll give you a quote," he said, smirking once again. "Not an interview. How about 'I think Honor can achieve anything she puts her mind to and if this is what she's interested in, I'm sure it will be a success'?"

"What?" Rory looked thrown, her eyes wide as she stared at him. "Honor? What are you talking about?"

"You're here for a tabloid, aren't you?" he asked. "The only time tabloid reporters decide to hunt me down is when my sister the socialite has done something tabloid-worthy. What is it this time? The fashion line for toddlers that she was talking about over Christmas?"

"I'm not here about your sister."

That was a surprise. Honor and her husband, Josh, had fully embraced the New York social scene when they moved there to be closer to his family, and although they didn't seek out the paparazzi - Honor wanted her daily life kept private - she attended enough glamorous events to have a frequent presence in the tabloids and on the gossip sites. If any journalist had a question for him, it was always about her.

But Rory wasn't here for that, or for any of the other possible reasons he'd thought of. He rested his elbows on his desk, leaning towards her and quirking one eyebrow. "Why then?"

"The Life and Death Brigade."

He must have heard wrong. She couldn't have said what he thought she had, but the smug look on her face suggested otherwise. His hands flexed, almost clenching into fists, but he forced himself not to visibly react. "The what?"

He hadn't reacted fast enough, hadn't managed to hide his first response to her words. Considering the wide smile on her face, it was too late for his faux confusion to convince her he really didn't know what she was talking about.

"It's a society from Yale," she said, although he was certain she knew he didn't need an explanation. "One of those secret ones. You went to Yale, didn't you?"

"That's what my Wikipedia page says." Rory rolled her eyes. "Although it's been more than a few years since I was last there, so I'm sorry if I'm not up-to-date with the different fraternities. If you want to know anything about that sort of thing, you've hunted down the wrong person."

Rory shook her head, a short, disbelieving laugh falling from her lips. "Have I?" She placed her phone on the desk, the voice recording app on its screen, and, after rummaging through her bag, slid a sheet of paper in a plastic wallet across the desk to him. "Because I'm pretty certain your grandfather knew quite a bit about it, and that makes me pretty certain that both you and your father know about it too."

He turned the paper over, his eyebrows rising at the image of a young man in a suit, leaping from a bridge. The name Elias Huntzberger was scrawled over the picture, identifying him, and Logan had to force himself not to grimace. It wasn't exactly proof that he was involved with the Brigade, but it _was_ proof that his family had been

"Alright, so I might have heard of it," he said. He probably should have been more annoyed about the whole thing - an article of the Life and Death Brigade would be trouble, even if it was only published somewhere like the New York News Bulletin - but she looked so proud of herself that he could only smile. "I don't know why you'd be interested. Shouldn't things that happen at college _stay_ at college?"

"You're thinking of Vegas." Logan chuckled, handing the picture of his late grandfather back to her. She didn't even glance down at it as she took it back. "And I'm interested because I don't think it stayed at Yale. I think some of the members are here, running around New York."

"You do, do you? And why's that?"

Rory bit her lip. Logan watched her as she gazed down at her knees, his eyes drawn to her fingers as she pulled nervously at the hem of her skirt. His question seemed to have drained her of some of the confidence she'd had when she was glaring at him or demanding an interview.

"This isn't the sort of story I usually write," she said suddenly, earnestly. "I know I shouldn't say this but if anyone else at work said they wanted to do a story like this, I'd be rolling my eyes and discounting it as fiction. I cover politics and I try to pretend I don't work somewhere that publishes stories about UFO sightings as though they're _not_ made up. I _definitely_ don't bother with stories like this."

He was surprised by how endearing her rambling was, her words so fast that, if he wasn't a quick speaker himself, he'd have trouble keeping up. "Stories like what?"

"Stories like a masked man in a cape dropping down from a building and landing in front of me." Logan tensed, his eyes wide, and he just hoped that she thought his shock was due to how ridiculous it should sound, not the realisation that Finn had finally made a memorable impression on the wrong person. Luckily, she seemed to read it as the former. "Look, I know it sounds ridiculous. I'd think the same thing if I hadn't seen it myself. But a man in a cape abseiled down from the roof of my building, scared a guy away and then left me with the words ' _In Omnia Paratus_ '. If I didn't look into it, I'd deserve to be at the Bulletin."

Logan took in a deep breath, trying to figure out what to do. Finn's ill-conceived goodbye had to be what had led her to the photo of his grandfather, and then to him. He couldn't tell her it was nothing when she'd seen and spoken to Finn, and he wouldn't want to. As important as it was to keep their late-night activities private, he wasn't going to try and persuade her that she hadn't seen what she thought she had or try to fool her into doubting herself.

What had Finn been _thinking_?

He reached out and turned off the voice recorder. Rory was just a moment too slow to stop him, her hand swiping out to try and bat his away after he'd already started to draw it back. "What are you-"

"This is off the record."

She shook her head, her eyes impossibly big. "But Mr Huntzberger-"

"Logan."

"Logan, please," she said, her fingers gripping the edge of her skirt again - was that something she did when she was nervous? - as she leant towards him. "I need a quote. I have a deadline. Please. If you don't give me _something_ , I'll be back to writing small paragraphs on Obama and hoping that a few of the readers actually bother with the politics section. Hasn't there ever been anything you just _have_ to write? Because that's what this is for me. I need to do this, and I need to do it properly. It can't just be another front page article that everyone treats like a joke. I don't… I don't need to know everything. I'm not going to ask for a list of names from the Life and Death Brigade. All I need right now is to prove it's true. That this guy is out there and he's saving people. You're the only lead I have."

It was a new approach to an interview, the desperation, but it was working. He understood her. He'd been in the same place once, trapped in a job he hated - and she did hate her job, her words had made her disdain for the New York News Bulletin very clear - only to find an escape in something he was passionate about. For him, it had been a return to the thrill seeking he'd left behind at Yale. For Rory, it was writing. It was this story.

He wanted to help her, he really did, but he couldn't risk it.

"I have a question for you, Rory," he said slowly. "If I know anything about the Life and Death Brigade and about New York's own caped crusader, why would I tell you? If New York really does have its own superhero, that's not just tabloid news. Not if there really is proof. Why would I give you the story instead of running it here?"

"Because you're one of them."

"And why would that stop me? Being the story never seemed to trouble Clark Kent or Peter Parker."

"They're not real," she snapped, her cheeks growing pink with what Logan assumed was irritation. "And you're _not_ a superhero."

"You just said I was. I'm flattered, by the way."

"I didn't say… Ugh, I mean that you were in the Life and Death Brigade. At Yale. Not-" she paused, pressed her lips together and breathed in. "Okay, I get it. You're not going to help. You're not going to give me anything. Fine. I'm still going to write it. I'm still going to find proof. And when I do, I'm going to publish everything I find out. Names, faces, everything."

"Good luck with that," Logan said, forcing a smirk. He stood up, waiting a few moments for her to pack up her phone and her picture of his grandfather, before rounding his desk, gently taking hold of her elbow and leading her out of the office. "I can't wait to read the article. Front page of the Bulletin, right? I'm sure your exposé will be the talk of the town."

The moment she was through the door, he released her, and she spun around to scowl at him. "You're a _jerk_ , Logan Huntzberger."

He couldn't do anything but smile. Despite the topic of conversation, the last ten minutes had been the most fun he'd had in a very long time, and he couldn't be anything but amused by her anger. He knew he deserved it - he'd provoked her - but her eyes were glittering again, her hands on her hips, and, whatever happened with her article, he couldn't regret their conversation. "Very professional."

She took a few deep breaths, the red fading from her cheeks, and then she reached into her bag and pulled out a thin metal case. "Here," she flicked the case open and offered him a business card. "In case you change your mind."

Rory didn't give him the opportunity to say anything more. The moment he took the card from her, she slammed the small case, spun around, and started back towards the elevator. He watched her walk away, gaze lingering on her legs and ass for longer than it should, until she stepped into the elevator. It was only then that he closed his office door.

He put the card in his pocket and decided not to check the time before lying down on the couch, one cushion folded beneath his head.

He dreamed of blue.

~~~*~~~

After he finally left the office, Logan was still thinking of Rory Gilmore. He'd spent the entire day regretting how he'd dismissed her and wondering if there was a better way he could have handled her and her potential story.

That, plus a voicemail from Nick and a fight with his dad about the Ledger's revenue, had led to him finishing his day at a local bar, going straight from the office without bothering to stop for dinner.

He really needed a drink.

Logan wasn't sure what to do. Her card was still in his pocket, and he was growing more and more tempted to call her and give her something to work with. Once he'd finished arguing with Mitchum that the Ledger didn't need a harder paywall, he'd started searching for every article Rory Gilmore had ever written, and the more he read, the more he wanted to tell her.

She was a good writer, a _very_ good writer, especially with regards to topics she was interested in. Her older work occasionally used too many similes, but it gave it a nice, almost lyrical, quality that he didn't see in many articles. Her increasing disillusionment with the Bulletin was clearer with each new article, especially compared with her articles on Obama's campaign in the Providence Journal and her feature pieces in the Harvard Crimson, but it wasn't her work for any of those papers that was stuck in his mind.

It was another article, one he'd been surprised to find online, that he couldn't stop thinking about. It was a few paragraphs below the fold of a paper called the Stars Hollow Gazette, just under a decade old, on the mysterious appearance of the chalk outline of a body on the main street of the small town. The outline had appeared in a blink of an eye, in front of several townspeople who all stated that they didn't see anyone draw it, not that anyone could possibly draw anything so quickly.

It wasn't exactly the most exciting story -with this making front page, Logan doubted there was much news in Stars Hollow - but it intrigued him. It read strangely, as though Rory was neatly reporting the story without providing all the facts. She made ridiculous leaps from one point to the other, as though she had knowledge that explained the event that she wasn't willing to share.

If she _had_ known more, she'd chosen not to print it. Maybe, if he helped out, she'd be willing to do the same thing again - that was, if he wasn't just reading too much into it.

God, he needed to stop thinking about her.

He ordered a second scotch and smiled over at one of the women sat at the other end of the bar. She returned the smile, twirling a strand of her dark hair around her finger, but before he could join her and let her distract him, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"This is a sight we haven't seen in a while." Finn was standing next to him, his other arm slung across Colin's shoulders. "You doing alright there, Huntz?"

"Took you long enough to get here," he said. "Want a drink?"

"I slept in." Finn smiled innocently, oblivious to the way Colin was rolling his eyes. "And yeah, I'll have some whiskey, if you're offering."

"Finn." Colin's tone was stern, but that didn't phase Finn. "You're going out tonight. Maybe a drink's not the best idea."

Finn laughed loudly, his arm sliding further along Colin's shoulders as he pulled him closer. "I punch better when I've got some booze in me. Do you want me to break _my_ nose too?"

Colin shrugged Finn's arm away, his fingers rising to press gingerly against the faded bruises around his nose and under his eyes. "As a matter of fact-"

"He has a point, Finn," said Logan, gesturing for the bartender as he spoke. "Maybe you'd be better at the whole secret vigilante thing if you weren't always tipsy on patrol?"

"What does that mean?"

"Did you run into a beautiful, blue-eyed woman sometime over the last few days?" Logan ignored Colin's question and kept his eyes on Finn, who only replied with a shrug. Logan shouldn't have expected anything more from him - he knew that Finn struggled to remember faces, although if Rory had made half the impression on Finn as she had on him, he wasn't sure how Finn could possibly forget her. "You used _In Omnia Paratus_ to say goodbye?"

Recognition dawned on Finn's face. "I remember now. She wouldn't give me her number."

"So you told her about the Life and Death Brigade?" Colin asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "Right, _that_ makes sense."

"She was asking a lot of questions. I used the latin to bamboozle her and then I went back to the rooftops. I didn't tell her anything about the Life and Death Brigade."

Logan sighed and took another sip of his scotch. "Of course she was asking a lot of questions. She's a reporter."

"For where?" Colin asked sharply, clearly much more worried than Finn. That didn't surprise Logan - he'd always suspected that Finn wouldn't mind if their vigilantism became public knowledge. He'd love the attention. "For one of HPG's papers? Can't you just pull the story?"

"It's not one of our papers. She works at the Bulletin."

Colin barked out a laugh. "Then there's nothing to worry about. No one's going to take her story seriously when it's printed alongside yet another headline claiming that aliens are coming."

"She's a good reporter, Colin. She's already been to see me, and started asking questions, trying to get names," he said. "What if she finds another member? Robert's on Wall Street. What if she goes to him? He doesn't know what we're doing. Why wouldn't he help her narrow things down to the only Australian? And once she identifies Finn and realises there's more than one of us, it's not going to take much to lead her right back to my door."

"And then what? She publishes it?" Colin shrugged. "No one will read it. No one who matters."

"I don't see the problem," Finn said, returning to Colin's side and once again slinging his arm around Colin's shoulder. "As long as she doesn't get our names, what's wrong with her printing a few stories?"

"That we don't want people going to dangerous streets to try and spot us?" Colin suggested. "And we really don't want the police looking for us. I don't think they'd be happy with us going around and doing their jobs for them."

"We'd just have to be a bit more careful. I'm happy for a bit more risk if it means we get a bit of appreciation for what we're doing. We're giving up our evenings to help people. Why shouldn't that be acknowledged somewhere?"

Colin sighed. "How many times do we need to have this conversation?"

"I'm tempted to tell her," Logan said quietly, stopping his friends' bickering before it started.

"Tell her what?"

"Everything." Logan downed the rest of his scotch, ignoring Colin's horrified gaze. "We give her the story. We give her more than she could ever expect to find by herself, so long as she keeps it anonymous."

"And why would she do that? She'll get more attention if she reveals who we are," Colin argued. "And even if she _does_ agree to that, the last thing we want is for people to know we're out there. What if the criminals start arming themselves better?" He gestured at his healing nose. "They're already enough trouble."

Logan nodded. Colin was right, Colin was making sense, but Logan didn't really want to listen. He thought of Rory, and her email address in his pocket, instead. His whole life was spent at work or on the streets of New York. Why shouldn't he get some recognition for the life he'd chosen?

He wasn't doing a very good job of not thinking about her.

"Enjoy last night, Finn?" he asked eventually, eager to move the conversation away from Rory Gilmore.

Finn shrugged. "Not really. Life's boring when I'm not jumping off buildings. I had a few beers and had an early night."

" _You_ had an early night?" Colin asked, rolling his eyes again. "You? The man who sleeps all day and lives off the family fortune?"

"I don't sleep all day. Sometimes I go to the gym."

"So you slept while Logan and I were at work, went to the gym, had a few beers, and then fell asleep yet again while we were patrolling? I'm surprised you're awake right now."

"I can't help that I'm getting old." Finn sighed dramatically,

"We're not getting old. We're just getting tired," Logan protested. "Maybe we should take a break. We could do a week in Monaco or a weekend in Vegas. Get the bong out of storage, buy the most expensive bottle of scotch we can find and join the poker game with the highest buy-in. Like in the old days."

Colin smiled nostalgically. "We'd get to the suite, share a few drinks and sleep for days. Besides, as nice as the thought is, we all know we'd never do it. We're in too deep to walk away now, even for a week."

Logan gestured for another scotch - he didn't need to watch what he was drinking, not when it was his night off. Colin was telling the truth. He'd never be able to take a break, not when he'd be too aware that there were people who needed saving.

It was too tiring. They'd started abseiling off buildings and freerunning over rooftops as a way to keep up the thrills they'd enjoyed at university without having to find the time to get away from work, but it had grown bigger than that. It had become time-consuming and stressful and his social life had been reduced to the odd evening with Colin and Finn and attending his mother and sister's many parties and fundraisers.

It had been too long since he'd felt in control of his life. His time belonged to his father and to the city, and any time he wasn't with them, he was sleeping or training.

Finn and Colin continued to banter but Logan didn't listen. He sat and swirled his scotch, falling quickly into the sombre contemplation that always overtook him after a few too many drinks.

Why did they go out each night? They weren't obligated to save people, it was just something they'd started doing. Why was it the three of them who were sacrificing their time and their safety to protect people they'd never met, only to get tired and bruised and lonely?

Why shouldn't they get some recognition? Didn't they deserve their pictures - or at least their silhouettes - on the front page?

Talking to Rory seemed more and more reasonable with each sip of his scotch. By the time Finn and Colin left him, he was certain enough - and drunk enough - to dig his phone and her business card out of his pocket and send her a brief email saying he'd reconsidered and would be willing to discuss further details of a potential meeting the following day.

With that message sent, he forced thoughts of Rory Gilmore and the possible consequences of talking to her out of his head. It was his night off. He should be relaxing, not dwelling on anything to do with his two full-time jobs.

He only managed to empty his mind after another couple of drinks, some brief conversation with a woman at the bar, and a quick fuck in the bathroom - it might have been the same woman he'd smiled at hours earlier, but things were fuzzy and he wasn't sure. They hadn't bothered to exchange numbers and then he'd let Frank help him into the car to take him home.

Logan was only just aware enough to turn his usual five a.m alarm on, the screen showing the numbers **01:57** , before collapsing into bed.

He fell asleep, suit and shoes still on.


	3. Rory

It had been a while since Rory last curled up on her couch with a large pizza and the Donna Reed show, but that was exactly what she'd planned to do after her too-short, unhelpful meeting with Logan Huntzberger. She'd been infuriated for hours after meeting him, calming down only to remember his parting words and get angry again, and instead of returning to work, she'd bought donuts and read a chapter of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay as she took the tube home.

Even once she was settled in her apartment, with the TV playing and her pizza half-eaten, she couldn't stop thinking about him. She wasn't used to things not going her way. It was usually easy; she'd be given a topic, she'd research it, and soon the article would be written and published. This story was the first one she'd chosen for herself, the first one she'd pitched, and although she'd expected it to be more difficult than previous stories she'd written, she'd also assumed that once she got an audience with Logan Huntzberger and demanded answers, she'd get them.

Instead, he'd dodged her questions and mocked her job. Rory had never been told 'no' before, other than when she'd been rejected for the Reston Fellowship - and she hadn't wanted that, not really, not when she already had a job at the ProJo with a salary and a 401(k) waiting for her - and Logan had sat there, listened to her come close to begging for answers, and still refused to help.

Maybe he hadn't been helpful, but he had at least confirmed his involvement with the Life and Death Brigade, albeit not in any way she could quote. If she could find another member, she could get the answers she wanted, but she had no idea where to start. The only reason she'd been led to Logan was because of the picture of his grandfather.

She should just let go of her pride and ask Diana for the sources she'd already gathered, but Rory wouldn't be surprised if that just led to another 'no'.

Rory didn't realise she'd fallen asleep until her alarm woke her the following morning. She was tangled in her duvet, her neck stiff from the awkward position she'd slept in, and the Donna Reed DVD menu still looping over and over on her TV screen.

She should go to work, she knew that, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead, she showered, put on her loose Harvard sweatpants and one of her old baggy sweaters, and had a couple of Poptarts for breakfast.

The last thing she wanted to do was go in and pretend she wasn't struggling to get the story she'd pitched, ignoring Diana's goading smirks and insincere offers to help.

At the rate she was going, Diana would get the story anyway. The only way Rory could see to get enough of a story with enough time to write it was to go out and wander the streets that night, but with the luck she'd had so far, that would probably just end in her murder.

The story didn't mean _that_ much to her.

Or at least, that was what she tried to convince herself. The thought only lasted until she opened her laptop to send her boss an email claiming that she wouldn't be in work because she was out chasing down leads. Right there, in bold, at the very top of her inbox, was an email from Logan Huntzberger.

She hesitated before opening it. It had arrived in her inbox just after one a.m and the subject line was blank. She hadn't expected giving him her card would have led to anything, and she'd been almost positive that it had gone straight in the trash the moment she'd left.

But he'd kept it. He'd emailed her.

And he wanted to see her again. He wanted to give her answers.

She reread the short message a few times. What had changed his mind? Why did he want to help? Not that she was complaining about his change of heart. This was what she wanted, and now that the information was being offered to her, and she didn't need to fight to get it, she wanted it even more.

 **Thank you so much for reconsidering** , she typed. **Given the time of your email, it's unclear which day you'd be able to meet. By tomorrow, do you mean what is now today or do you mean Friday? Today would be preferable if you're available.**

She signed the email with another thank you and then sent it. Once she'd also emailed Jonah about being out of the office that day, she nestled deeper into the blanket and started googling Logan. She'd barely researched him before going to his office. She'd known what questions she wanted to ask - was the Life and Death Brigade real, and if so, could he identify the Australians - and she'd chosen to spend her time trying to reach him instead of looking up anything.

Now that she was getting a second chance with him, she was going to make sure she took advantage of that time. She wanted to know more about the Life and Death Brigade, to hear his speculation on why one of his old college acquaintances had started dressing up and acting like a superhero.

There was little chance she'd get the high definition photo Jonah wanted, but quotes from Logan and a lead on the masked man's identity would hopefully be enough to sell him on her article and get it printed in the Sunday edition.

Even though she knew it hadn't been long enough to expect a reply, she couldn't help the growing anxiety with each minute that passed. She wanted to meet that day, but the longer it took him to reply, the less likely it was that he'd be able to schedule a last minute interview. She could still get her article done if he meant Friday, but with more time, she could follow up on any leads he gave her.

If he'd even meant his middle-of-the-night change of heart.

She hoped he did. She wanted to see him again, and not just because he was the only solid lead she had. As frustrating as her conversation with him had been, it had been a long time since an exchange with anyone had made her feel anything that strongly.

She'd read through his Wikipedia page, his profile on the Forbes 400, several other short articles on the 'multi-billion dollar heir to the Huntzberger Publishing Group', and started to shamelessly look through the Google image results - he was infuriating, but she wouldn't deny that he was beautiful - by the time he replied.

**I usually don't consider the day over until I've fallen asleep. I may have sent that email in the early hours of this morning, but when I said tomorrow, I meant today. I'm busy for most of the day, but I remember you saying you had a deadline so I'm willing to meet you once I've finished at the Ledger if you want the interview done today. I'll be free around 10 pm. If that's too late, I can check tomorrow's schedule and try to pencil you in in the morning?**

Ten o'clock that night? That seemed late, but if that was when he finished working, she doubted he wanted an interview at that time any more than she did. She would have suggested waiting until the following day if not for the deadline - and she was surprised to see that he'd not only remembered that part of her embarrassing, desperate rant but was trying to accommodate it.

If he was offering her the chance to get answers from him that day, she had to take it.

**If you're sure about that time, then that works for me. I passed a small coffee shop on the way to the Ledger offices yesterday, so if it's still open at that time, would you like to meet there?**

He replied within minutes.

**I don't know about the coffee shop. I don't know the opening times either and I'd prefer us to meet somewhere more private. I'm sure you've already figured out that the Life and Death Brigade alumni include several high-ranking members of society so I'd rather not risk anyone overhearing anything.**

**Before we finalize details, I need to make it clear that there will be a few conditions to the interview. The only one you need to know now is that I need your word that no names will be shared afterwards. If you can't agree to that, no interview. If you do agree, your email will be kept as proof.**

She tapped her nails against the metal of her laptop as she considered her response. She wasn't interested in revealing the identities of the Life and Death Brigade members to the world - the society might have been instrumental in leading her to Logan and, hopefully, to the masked man, but they weren't the story. The only thing holding her back from an immediate answer was wondering what she'd do if one of the names he gave her was the masked man. Agreeing to no names could put a wrench in her plans for an exposé.

But maybe some mystery would be better? An exposé would be one story, potentially two depending on how much information she managed to gather before Saturday. If Logan did give her the name, she could contact the masked man himself and maybe, with her reassurances that she wouldn't reveal his identity, she could get more from him - the why's, the what's and the how's, if not the who's.

She was getting ahead of herself. She didn't even know what Logan could tell her.

And she _wouldn't_ know unless she agreed.

With that thought in mind, she sent him one last reply, agreeing to his condition, and within minutes, she had a message in her inbox from Logan saying that he was looking forward to seeing her and that he'd email her where the interview would be held once he'd found a place.

Once the interview was scheduled in her calendar, she felt much more productive. On Jonah's request, she wrote a quick article on the latest policy introduced by the mayor - not her best work, but it wasn't like anyone was going to read it - and then she returned to researching Logan.

After graduating Yale, he'd worked at a few different papers, starting in London and then transferring from there to New York. His time there had ended very abruptly, and after a few months at one of the Huntzberger-owned papers in Chicago, he'd returned to Yale to attend the School of Management. Two years and an MBA degree later, he'd taken over the New York Ledger.

He didn't seem to do much other than work, which didn't surprise Rory after he'd told her he wouldn't be free until ten, although being a workaholic didn't seem to stop him from attending the several charity fundraisers hosted by his mother or his sister. There were a few pictures of him at such events, standing with his sister or with his arm wrapped around his date - from what she could see, he never had the same date twice.

Rory preferred the more candid photos. There weren't many, only a few that Honor Huntzberger had shared on her Instagram, but they were much more endearing than the posed ones from the parties. In one, he was reading a book to his nephew, in another, he was fast asleep on the couch; in both, he was smiling.

He looked exhausted in every image, but what stood out the most was how often he was injured. He had a black eye in Honor's Christmas selfie. At the fundraiser for the New York-Presbyterian Children's Hospital, his arm was in a sling, which he explained in the accompanying interview was due to a bad mixed martial arts training session. In a photo of all the Huntzberger Publishing Group board members, he had a split lip, apparently from freerunning.

She frowned. She'd assumed that not every Life and Death Brigade member gave up the extreme sports after graduating, and it had seemed only sensible to follow that thought with the idea that it was one of those people who had taken up vigilantism in their spare time.

Logan Huntzberger definitely hadn't given up extreme sports. Not only that, but he knew enough to offer her an interview requiring a 'no names' clause, and she remembered Victor telling her that one of Diana's sources had described the vigilante as blond and clad in leather.

What if Diana's sources were all right? What if there really was more than one of them roaming the streets at night? And if there was, what if Logan Huntzberger was one of them?

Her mind was racing with all the questions she could ask him - when he had started, why he had started, how many of them were there - even though she knew she might be adding things up to the wrong answer because the wrong answer was what she wanted. She only stopped thinking when she was interrupted by a buzz from the intercom.

Surprised by the noise, she abandoned her laptop on the couch and wandered over to it, pressing the sound button as she leant in and spoke. "Uh, who is this?"

"Jess."

"Jess? What are you-? Nevermind. Just give me in a minute and I'll come and let you in."

After slipping on a pair of flip-flops, she locked the door of her apartment behind and hurried down the narrow flight of stairs to the small lobby. Jess was waiting at the door, shifting impatiently from side to side, and the moment she opened the door, he stepped past her into the building, patting her shoulder in greeting as he did so.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, following him as he started up the steps back to her apartment. "You could have called."

"It's my lunch break and I was in the neighbourhood," he said. "Thought I'd drop by and see if you were in. Didn't actually think you would be."

"I'm working from home." They reached the door and Jess stepped aside to let Rory unlock it. "I just couldn't be in the office today."

With the door locked behind her, Rory returned to her place on the couch, laptop once again resting on her knees. Jess didn't join her, heading for the small kitchenette instead. "You have chips?"

"Yeah. Top shelf on the left." She glanced over at him as he grabbed the large pack of Lays chips. "I said I had some. I wasn't offering you them."

"What, you want to be paid back?" He joined her on the couch, leaning against the opposite arm and placing the bag of chips on the space between them. "Here."

He reached into his pocket and offered her a few crumpled dollar bills. Rory rolled her eyes. "I'm kidding. Just don't eat them all."

"Hey, if this is the best apartment you can afford, then you _need_ this," he said, gesturing at the surrounding walls. "And you're being underpaid." Rory rolled her eyes, used to Jess' comments. "Is that new?"

She followed his gaze to a large empty blue and white vase she had beside the television. "Maybe? Grandma sent it a few months ago. I don't remember if you've been here since."

"I'd remember it," he decided. "It's an eyesore."

"It's not! Say what you want about Emily Gilmore, but she has good taste."

"She has good taste for mansions in Hartford. This place isn't exactly a Ming vase sort of neighbourhood," Jess said. "Although I'm guessing she doesn't know that."

"Is there such a thing as a Ming vase sort of neighbourhood?" Rory asked, taking a handful of crisps from Jess. "I don't think it's one of the categories people check for when looking for a new place."

"Wow. You're not even trying to make excuses. Come on, Rory, you know this place is a shithole. What other reason do you have for not letting Lorelai visit?"

"For not letting my mom…" Rory shook her head, a bitter laugh falling from her lips. "I should have known. You didn't just happen to be in the neighbourhood, did you? You were hoping you'd catch me. God, I can't believe she's roped you into this."

"No one expects the Spanish Inquisition," Jess said, shrugging. "Lorelai's words, not mine. I saw her the other day when I visited Stars Hollow. Her and Luke are worried about you - wanted to know if I've seen where you live."

"And they asked _you_?"

"Lorelai even waggled her eyebrows. If she's hoping we're hooking up again, you know she's getting desperate." Rory sighed.

Until the days leading up to Lorelai and Luke's wedding, she and Jess hadn't spoken since her disastrous phone call to California before her graduation. It was only after days of awkward wedding prep, several glasses of champagne, lots of yelling and a drunken almost hook-up - one that Lorelai had walked in on and broken up with a "But he's your _cousin_ now" - that they'd ended up with the relationship they had now.

"Apparently you're always busy whenever they want to visit."

"It's not my fault that the news doesn't fit itself around my mom's schedule."

"Come on, Rory," Jess said, exasperated. "This place isn't even suitable for humans."

"It's not _that_ bad," she protested, reaching out to slap at his shoulder. "Sure, the neighbourhood is a bit Crime Alley-esque, but the apartment's nice. There's a lot of space and the water pressure's good and-"

"You know this is is just going to end up with your mom or your grandparents showing up here to surprise you and getting murdered."

"There hasn't been a murder here in years. I checked before I signed the lease."

Jess gaped at her for a few seconds and then shook his head in disbelief. "Look, murder or not, if you can't even show this place to your mom, maybe you shouldn't be living here?"

"It's not that I _can't_ show her," Rory said, reaching over to grab another handful of crisps. "I just don't want to. She made such a big deal out of me letting Grandma and Grandpa pay for my apartment back in Providence. I don't want her to come here, see this, and insist on me asking Dad for help instead. As if that's any different. Besides, I only have six months left on the lease and it's not like I'll be renewing it. I can handle six more months. And so can Mom. It's not as if I don't see her."

"Alright." They shared a slightly uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, broken only by the sounds of Jess eating the chips and Rory clicking through the google results on her laptop. When the silence had lasted too long, Rory felt him lean closer, peering over her shoulder at the many images of Logan. "Who's that? What are you working on?"

"It's Logan Huntzberger," she answered. "And what I'm working on is a secret."

"I didn't realise we had secrets."

"We have _some_ secrets." They didn't really, at least not intentionally. She was sure there were many things about Jess' life that she didn't know and vice versa, but nothing that they were purposefully keeping from each other. "It's just a bit of a new direction for me. I want to see if it all works out, and I want to keep it to myself until then."

"Moving away from politics?"

"Thinking about it." He nodded, and Rory frowned when she caught him glancing down at his watch. "Do you have to go or am I just boring you?"

"I was just here for my lunch break. You're not boring," he said, closing the bag of chips and returning it to the kitchen. "I'd be late if we weren't trying to sign a new poet today, but the others'll kill me if I'm not there. It's in five minutes, so I'm already cutting it close."

"Five minutes? Jess!"

"Hey, you know I can make it." He unlocked the several latches keeping the front door locked, turning back to look at her once he was standing in the hall. "Want me to tell Luke everything's fine if I see him first?"

"Would you?" She smiled gratefully at him when he nodded. "Thanks."

He raised his hand in farewell, and then the door was closed and he was gone.

~~~*~~~

Rory had expected the address Logan gave her to be an office building or even an unusually quiet coffee shop, but his given directions hadn't led her anywhere like that. She'd followed his instructions to the letter, and ended up standing, alone, in a dark alleyway.

She checked his email again, and then once more, but there was nothing to suggest she wasn't where he wanted her to be. She didn't know what he was thinking, asking to meet her there. One close call in a week was enough, and she'd rather not end another evening with her heart racing and needing someone to rescue her.

With that in mind, she slipped her phone back into her bag and turned her back on the alley. If this really _was_ where Logan wanted to meet, he couldn't blame her for not waiting for him, and if it wasn't, then it was his fault for sending her the wrong directions.

She only managed a few steps before she heard a familiar zip. She spun around and, even though she maybe should have expected it, she still gaped at the sight of Logan standing before her. She knew it was him, even with the mask, but that didn't stop her from staring. It couldn't, not when he was dressed like he was about to jump on a motorbike and start speeding down the streets, in a leather jacket and trousers.

It was a better look than the caped crusader aesthetic the Australian had chosen.

"Logan?"

Even with the shadows of the alley, she could see his smirk. "You wanted an interview, Ace?"

"Well, yeah, but I didn't… What are you doing?" He had grabbed at her hand, tugging her gently into the dark with him. "You know I'm a journalist, right?"

"I remember, _Lois_ ," he said, his smile widening, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Rory rolled her eyes. "You also said no names, and I don't mind what you write so long as you don't name and shame me. And I have your word that you won't."

"But… this isn't an interview."

"I'm giving you more than an interview. I'm giving you a story." She beamed at him. She may have considered the possibility of him being one of the vigilantes, but she'd never expected him to confirm it - and definitely not like this. It was more than she could have asked for. He wasn't just giving her a story, he was giving her everything she needed. "Now, come on."

He tugged on her hand, leading her further into the alley. She was wearing the same shoes she'd worn during her last vigilante encounter - they were just as bad for keeping up with Logan as they had been for running away from a drunken creep - and although he wasn't going too fast, she still stumbled. She didn't need catching, but she noticed Logan moving as though he would do just that.

The shoes were getting thrown out as soon as she got home. Or at least stashed away in the closet. She wouldn't even have worn them if she didn't want to look good - look _smart_ \- for her interview.

They stopped next to a fire escape, and Rory glanced from it to the expectant look on Logan's face. "We're not going up there."

"We're going up there."

Rory gaped at him, shaking her head insistently. He just chuckled, and even though the sound was warm and comforting, it still didn't make her want to go up to the roof. "It's ten stories high."

"It could be higher." Rory glared at him. "Come on, Ace. You want this story, don't you?"

"Well, yeah, but-"

"But what?"

She couldn't think of a response other than it was crazy. It couldn't be happening. A costumed, masked billionaire _couldn't_ be asking her to go up to the rooftops with him. That didn't happen, not in real life.

"That's ten stories," she said again, grimacing at her own words."That's-"

"A lot of steps, but not a deal breaker." Logan turned to look at her, his arms folded across his chest. "Not to the woman who terrified my assistant-"

"I didn't _terrify_ anyone, especially not Miss 'Mr Huntzberger doesn't respond to ambush journalism'"

"-And threatened me with the dreaded 'no comment' line. The woman who needed to write about this. I didn't think heights would be the thing to send her running."

"I'm not running."

"Looks like you want to."

Rory raised an eyebrow, widening her stance and raising her chin towards him. "You don't know me. You don't know what it looks like I want to do."

He seemed irritatingly amused by her, his stare glancing over her anchored feet and her hands on her hips before he offered her his hand again. "So, you're coming? It's rooftops or nothing." He leant towards her, grinning when her fingers closed around his. "That's condition two."

Well, if she _had_ to.

She let him lead her up the fire escape, her narrow heels occasionally catching in the metal grating. Unlike her, he was light on his feet, barely making a sound as he took the stairs two steps at a time.

Several flights later, they reached the small balcony on the top floor. Rory's chest felt slightly tighter than usual, not used to that many steps, but Logan seemed unaffected. He just waited for her to catch her breath, standing at the other side of the small landing, his smile soft and patient, and once she had, he nodded his head towards the roof.

There were no more steps.

"If you stand on my shoulders, you should be able to climb up," Logan said. "I promise I won't let you fall."

Rory didn't let herself think about it. She squared her shoulders and crossed the small space between them, and it was only when he knelt down in front of her that she hesitated. They were high up, her shoes weren't the best to balance in, and following him up a fire escape was one thing, but this?

"We can go back down if you don't want to do this. I wasn't serious before." Rory looked up, away from the long drop down, back to him. "You don't have to do this. I can make time for you tomorrow."

"I'm up here, aren't I?" He grinned at her, offering her his hand again. "I'm not really wearing the right shoes for this, so, uh, sorry."

He chuckled, ducking his head down as she rested her spare hand on his head and stepped up to his shoulders, thankful that she'd worn trousers. His hand released hers to grab her ankle, the other hand doing the same, to hold her steady and then he slowly got to his feet. They were near enough to the wall for Rory to lean against it, her hands travelling up the brickwork as he lifted her up.

When he was fully upright, the edge of the roof's parapet was just below her waist and it didn't take much for her to lift herself up and scramble over it. Logan scaled the wall more gracefully, planting one foot midway up the wall before pushing himself up and vaulting up to join her.

"So why me?" she asked, starting her interrogation the moment they were both on the rooftops. "Why are you doing this?"

"I thought the best thing for both of us would be for me to give you the story." She could hear his grin, although now that they were high above the streets, there weren't any street lamps to illuminate it. "With a few terms attached, of course."

"Like no names and rooftops only?"

"Just like that," he said. "Now, I want to make things clear. I don't mind you writing about me. I don't mind photos. I don't even mind videos, so long as no one sees my face. And if it's what you want, or need, I can keep giving you quotes whenever you want them. I can make sure you're always the one with the story."

"As long as the story doesn't have anything in that will identify you?"

"Exactly."

"And what about those stories? Do you want to read them first? Do you want to be able to veto anything that you don't like? Are you expecting me to write them with your spin on it or are you just going trust me? If someone does see something, are you expecting me to cover for you, because-"

"I don't expect anything," he interrupted. "But ask me again after you've printed the first one."

Rory shook her head, lips drawn tight together to stop the smile. "Okay, so that's one. You still haven't answered the first. Why me? Because I'm the first reporter to track you down?"

"Because I like your work. I like your passion. It's not often I'm told I'm a jerk and then handed a business card."

"You like my…? You've _read_ my work?"

"After you left my office. It was the least boring afternoon I've had in months. I even subscribed to the Bulletin this morning," he told her. "My favourite article was your front page spread on Obama a few months back, but it only just beat out the one about my sister and a rumoured affair. What was the headline again? 'Huntzberger heiress dishonors marriage vows'? At least your story actually had some truth to it."

This time, it wasn't possible to quell her smile. Logan was an editor at one of the bigger New York Newspapers and he was telling her that he liked her work, that he'd let her in on his secret because he thought she had the talent to write about it.

"So what happens now?"

"You stay here while I follow routine, and then after an hour or two, I'll take you home. I already told one of the others that he'll be on his own for the rest of the night."

"You don't need to take me home," she protested. "I can get back by myself."

"I'm sure," he said. "The problem is that I know, better than most, how dangerous the mean streets of New York can be. I'll sleep better if I know you got home safely, and I don't get enough sleep to lose any worrying about you."

After her close encounter a few nights earlier, she couldn't argue with that, and as soon as Logan seemed to realise that, he turned and started to walk back towards the edge of the roof. Rory reacted surprisingly quickly, reaching out and just managing to catch hold of his arm.

"Don't I get to ask you some questions?" she asked. "I'm not here just to watch and cheer when you save the day. How many of you are there? Does everyone in the Life and Death Brigade do this after graduating? Do you work as a team? Do you each have an area? Do you all come out every night or do you alternate?"

"Slow down there, Ace," he laughed. "I thought you could ask me as I drive you home."

"You can't answer those questions now?"

He turned around to face her. "Fine. There are three of us, but only two of us go out each night."

"And they were in the Life and Death Brigade too?"

"Look, Rory, I'll answer every question I can, but my friends are off-limits. I came to you, they didn't," he said. "They're not part of this story and if you could keep them out of it, that would be great. As far as the readers of the Bulletin need to know, I work alone."

She didn't get an opportunity to ask anything else. He walked away, and Rory watched as he climbed up onto the low wall and peered down at the streets below them.

It could have been a panel in a comic book, his silhouette in front of the New York skyline. Rory used her phone to take a picture, capturing the moment just before he took off towards a taller building a few hundred metres down the street.

He seemed to have a way to get anywhere. He leapt across narrow alleyways, rolling upon impact when he landed on the opposing roof; scrambled up walls to reach higher ground. He had something on his belt that he tended to use, a gadget that created temporary zip wires between two buildings when the gap was too wide for him to jump or as a grapple when a wall too high for him to climb or jump from.

Rory wished she had a better camera with her. She'd taken a few more good photos - his silhouette mid-leap between two rooftops in one, halfway up a wall in the other - but she doubted they were as high definition as her editor would have liked. At least they were all much better than the blurry shadow that the other papers would be using.

As exciting as it was to watch him run and parkour around, he spent most of his time standing on the edges of rooftops and staring down at the streets below. He only descended from the roof twice.

The first time he'd done so, it had taken Rory a while to spot why, but eventually she had seen the mugging in progress. She had been half-expecting Logan to launch himself off the building à la Spiderman, but it turned out there was a bit more time and care needed before dropping down. He attached a wire to the parapet first, tugged on it a couple of times, and then climbed off the side. It was only once he was securely balanced off the side of the building that he dropped down. The whole manoeuvre only took him a minute., and then he was pulling the mugger away and the criminal was running away.

The second time, the guy wasn't as easily scared away. Rory couldn't hear what was happening, but she saw the man throw a punch Logan's way. Logan ducked out of the way, catching the man's arm, and although Rory couldn't get a clear view of the scuffle that followed, it was clear that Logan knew just what he was doing, was trained to evade and disarm.

She lost sight of him after that, but she used that half an hour to write notes; about him, about the area. She'd need to tone down the admiration when she wrote the story, but she hadn't been able to stop the gushing. It was one thing to know he was a vigilante, but it was another to see him in action.

It was just after midnight when he rejoined her. "Sorry, lost track of time. I hadn't meant to make you wait for so long," he told her, his breath slightly laboured. "Are you okay?"

"Me?" She shook her head in disbelief. "I'm fine. You're the one who was - what even happened to that guy? Did you call the cops?"

"I did. Put some cable ties around his wrists and ankles and told the cops just where to find him."

"So the police must know about you, or at least suspect you guys are out here doing this," she said, surprised.

"I expect so. We used to think they'd say something, but weeks went by and we didn't hear anything." He shrugged. "I think they just don't want to admit that someone else has to do their job for them. Besides, it's not like the crime numbers have really changed. They don't have to account for anything being different."

"But if they're catching more people-"

"Unless their victim comes forward and reports them, there isn't really much evidence the police can use to convict someone they found tied up in an alley." She stared at him, eyebrows furrowed together. If that was true, if it didn't make much of a difference, then why was he doing it? She was about to ask that exact question when he spoke again. "Are you cold?"

She was, but she hadn't noticed until he asked. She'd been too focused on him. "I'm fine."

"Come on, I'll get you home." He held his hand out towards her and after dropping her phone into her handbag, Rory took it. "Now, we could go back down the fire escape, but if you really want a story, you could jump down with me."

"With your wire thing? I don't know…"

"It's safe, I promise," he said. "I won't let you fall."

"You're sure it's safe?"

Logan shrugged, which wasn't the most reassuring thing he could have done. "I've not tried it before, but as long as I put our combined weight on this," he gestured at the gadget on his belt, "make sure we're both harnessed to it, and then it should work. I'll clip the carabiner through your belt buckle."

Rory raised an eyebrow. "And that will be secure enough?"

"I have a harness built into my suit, so you won't be as secure as I am, but I'll keep hold of you," he said. "As I said already, I won't let you fall. I wouldn't have suggested this if I wasn't sure it was safe."

She let him lead her to the edge, swallowing when she glanced down and saw exactly how high up they were. She'd already gone far enough out of her comfort zone for the story - storming his office and demanding an interview, meeting him late at night. Plummeting off a rooftop was one step too far.

Rory shook her head. "Logan, I can't."

"You can't?"

"You've given me everything I need for this article, I don't need to-"

"Don't you want to know what it feels like?" he asked earnestly. "Why I do this? _This_ is why, or at least it's why I started. It's a rush, it's exciting, it's an escape." She stared at him, sure he was looking right back at her even if the shadows made it too hard to know for certain. She could feel it. "Don't you want to understand?"

"Yes." It was barely audible, the word escaping her as she exhaled. She wanted to understand _him_. In that moment, she wanted to understand him more than she'd ever wanted anything.

A slow grin spread across his face, and then she felt his gaze move over her - down to her toes and back up to meet her eyes again. He adjusted a dial on the top of the zip wire gadget, attached one of the thick wires from the gadget to the inside of the parapet, and then stepped closer to her.

"Do you mind?" he asked, gesturing down at something, but Rory didn't see what. She was too busy staring at him, his face - his lips - only an inch or so from hers.

"No."

His breath was surprisingly shaky as he reached down and unclipped the carabiner from the integrated harness of his suit, using his other hand to hold her belt as he slipped the clip through her buckle. He locked it shut after reattaching it to his suit, Rory having to stand on her tiptoes so the carabiner could reach.

They were so close, hips in line, her chest touching his with each breath. "Are you ready, Ace?"

She nodded, breath hitching when his arms wrapped around her and he lifted her up, her own arms going around his neck. He was holding her so the carabiner was level, her hips just slightly higher than his. "You jump, I jump, Jack."

He chuckled and stepped up onto the parapet, Rory's arms tightening around him at the movement. There was barely enough time to take a breath before they were falling.

She could hear the zip of the wire as they descended, could feel his arms strong and solid around her as the air rushed past them. Her heart was beating too fast, his hold on her the only tangible thing she had as they dropped to the street, and she'd never felt anything like it.

The ground came too soon. Rory barely felt the landing, her feet not touching the street until Logan set her down. She stayed on her tiptoes, kept her arms around him, her chest heaving as she fought for breath she hadn't even realised she'd lost.

Logan only needed one hand to undo the carabiner, his other arm still around her waist as he reached between them and released her. She sank back down to her heels, her hands sliding from behind his neck to rest on his chest. She couldn't step away, couldn't stop smiling at him. He returned the smile, his soft expression lit by the nearby streetlamp.

"Wow," she breathed, an exhilarated laugh falling from her lips. "A once in a lifetime experience."

"Only if you want it to be."


End file.
